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Should I talk a little louder in retaliation? Remember, I'm the one with the weapon here, Mr. Hangover.

[ quentin laughs a little, but he quiets when the other man's hands slide along his back, the tense muscles from a morning of swimming. he's not the type to invite random strangers into bed or the shower when he's not under the influence of something, but something about this guy feels safe. it shouldn't, of course, but - t̸͍͉͉͋͑͘h̵̙̫̪͑͒̕e̵̙͇̺̽̈́͠y̵̡͙͙͑͒͠'̸̢̢̾͌̓v̴͖͎̈́̓̔e̴̡̻͔̔̔͊ b̵͇̠̦͋͒͆e̸̙̼̘̔̔͝e̵͚̠̦̚̕͠n̴̡͓͓̐̽͐ h̴͖͙͖̽͐͑e̴̘̝̓̓r̸͖̻̙̽̔͝e̸͔͎͙͆̒͝ a̵͔̟͔͒͋̚ d̴̡̪̟̈́͌o̴͕̟̽̿͠z̴̪̝̪͋̐͆e̴͉͍̝͋͊͠n̸̢̝̞͐̿̐ t̸̘̘͕́̀̔i̸̫̝͑̒͊͜m̸͓̟͇̈́́̒e̵̡͉͎͌͘̚s̵̡͍̼͒͐̿ b̴̫̪̀̿̓e̸̻͍͓͌̀͠f̵̢͉̻͛͆o̴͕͖͕͒̀͝r̸̡̘̫̐̀e̴͉̝͉̔́̈́

- tequila shots. it all makes sense. ]

A misdemeanor isn't so bad. I don't mind a little bad press, but can we wait on the whole murder thing until after the Olympics? I'd like to at least pretend I stand a chance at placing.

[ he hums, leaning his back into the callused hands. ] You can join my showers hungover any time you want with hands like those.

[kobes]

I refuse to negotiate with threats against my poor exploding head. [huffy, pressing both thumbs nearly too hard against a knot of sore muscle, wanting to see quentin tense, wanting him to twitch away, wanting to watch the ripple of all that muscle when faced with a bite of pain.

and then he softens them, returns to gentle, practiced massage, listening idly. an olympian, interesting – not usually on the radar; the clean-cut image tends to make seedy business deals something they avoid. but that michael phelps guy made a killing in sponsorship deals after the ‘04 olympics, so maybe…maybe it’s worth his time.

besides. koby is fine sharing a bathroom with some guy if he’s hot and talks in a voice like hot butter and makes those kinds of sounds when he’s touched. still working his way over the relaxing, loosening muscles, he moves closer, brushing thigh against thigh, letting the warmth of his body radiate, present and right there.]

Everyone’s got bad posture or a bad back or shoulder or something. Take a couple massage courses and you’ll be a hit anywhere you go. [a shrug, a huffing laugh, hands going lower and lower and...] Showers, parties, funerals...

[longitudinal]

[ q flinches, the hard press of fingers enough to make a little pained sound tumble from his lips. it's enough for his back to arch away from the touch, glutes flexing, thighs tensing. he thinks this guy is probably doing it on purpose, but he also doesn't mind that. he likes a little pain - but he's not had that kind of attention in a while.

their bodies are closer now, he can feel the heat of the guy behind him, hands lower and lower... but he reaches back for them just as they reach the meat of his ass, pulls them around him, laughing. ]

Trade me.

[ he smooths hands over the guy's arms, turning in the circle of his trapped arms to face him, grinning. his back feels better, more relaxed, and he sighs. ] Close your eyes.

[ all gentle, almost amused, and he reaches for the shampoo, lathering it in his hands before he slides his fingers into koby's hair, going slow and applying the tiniest bit of pressure. ] Tell me about your massage courses. [ cheeky, considering he's performing a little scalp massage right now. ]

[kobes]

[there's a bemused huff, an exhale of heat against the tensing jut of a shoulderblade, watching beads of water drip down across shivery, dusky skin beneath koby's kneading, relentless hands. there's an artistry in the way quentin moves, breathes, and koby's more than ready to follow this to the natural conclusion, to get closer and enjoy himself and because -- because someone wants to, because he's tired and his head hurts and it's what he knows. so he moves lower and lower and --

and then quentin is gently moving his arms away, so effortlessly and smoothly that koby doesn't have time to blink before the other man's moving, turning and grabbing the shampoo and --] Oh. [a little dazed, squinting one eye shut, then the other, genuinely taken off-guard by the gentle scrub of quentin's fingers through his curling, pale-pink hair.] It, uh -- it was in some guy's house. It smelled like patchouli and weed.

You don't...I mean. [trying to recover his composure, to be detached and composed and in control. he keeps his eyes scrunched shut, huffing softly.] You don't gotta do that. If you don't wanna.